


I Listen For Returning Feet

by cherrytart



Series: Burglarising [15]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Epilogue, Gah, Multi, Packing, Sadness, bagginshield, billa has a lot of emotions, fem!Bilbo, hobbits do not understand dwarves, oh god what have I done, series is done, tea-sets, there's a lot of packing, what do i do now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytart/pseuds/cherrytart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have come full circle, and Billa has a house full of dwarves again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Listen For Returning Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a song Bilbo sings in Fellowship of the Ring when the nine are leaving Rivendell. It made me cry, so its here.

There are dwarves in her kitchen again. And her garden, and her dining room and the lane outside.

 They have trampled the rosemary bush that somehow survived unscathed through their last visit, and the hydrangeas are looking decidedly worse for wear. Hamfast’s uncle Holman is never going to forgive them, but Billa is smiling in spite of herself.

Spring in the Shire would bring out one of her better moods in any event, but this after all is a special spring- she has her dwarrows back and her house full, and Lobelia Sackville Baggins is going absolutely _bonkers_.

“What do you mean you’re not _sure_?” the red headed hobbit woman exclaims, arms akimbo and eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Just what I say, dear.” Bilbo replies in a nannyish tone she knows will rile Lobelia even further, yet cannot resist using. A snicker of laughter from behind her indicates that Kili finds it just as funny.

“But…you…this is beyond childish, Billa. You can’t be thinking of coming _back_. After all, you’ve already uprooted yourself more than enough, put the entire neighbourhood in uproar- not that I’m not glad the child is safe, but you must see that-”

“Oh do put a cork in it, won’t you.” Prim comes strolling over, shading her eyes under her hand as Lobelia whirls across the garden in a huff.

“You needn’t have come all this way.” Billa says, but she doesn’t mean it. She _will_ be coming back, honestly, she could never leave the Shire indefinitely (could she?) but she knows it will be awhile till she sees the hobbit side of her family again.

“Course I did. You’re the talk of the Shire.” Primula says, grinning as though she finds this entire scenario delightful. “You’re not selling up then?” she looks behind her at Bag-end as she speaks, to where Nori is arguing with someone over the correct way to dismantle the dresser in the hallway.

“No. Hamfast’s promised to keep the garden for me…unless you want the place of course. I’m only not giving it to the Sackville’s because I can’t bear the thought of living with them when I come back to visit, but if it was you and Drogo-” She hasn’t really thought of it before, but maybe this way would be better.

Prim’s face crinkles up, though. “With that mark still on your door? No fear.”

Billa finds herself making a similar expression when she remembers the rune Gandalf carved on her freshly painted front door. It’s still there- faint and fading, but discernible at the right angle. She had always meant to have it painted over, but something in her couldn’t bear it, to have this last link to her dwarrows, however tenuous, slip away.

Now there is no need of course, and the whole thing has resolved itself reasonably well, if not neatly. “If you’re sure.” she tells Prim.

“Oh, I am. Drogo’s just finished painting the windowsill, its closer to Buckland and a fine size for the three of us, I should think.”

It takes a moment for the words to settle in Billa’s mind and for her to perform a startled double take before turning to Prim, who is wearing a smirk as wide as Esme’s cat with a saucer of best Tuckborough cream. “The three of…you’re not…” Billa can scarcely get the words out past the grin that splits her face all of a sudden.

“Not very far, but I think so. I haven’t told Drogo yet.” Prim takes her hand. “Wish me luck?” she asks, and Billa, seized by a fit of compulsion, hugs her.

“All the luck in the world, to both of you.” she says quietly, thinking of how many people she knows that deserve that, and wishing beyond hope that she could ensure it for them. “And where _is_ Drogo?” she asks.

“Oh- he and that dwarf with the funny hat went off talking about boat repairs.” Prim says.

“You ought to stay off that river altogether.” Lobelia shoulders between them with her eyebrows pinched together. “Not natural it is, out on the river at all hours. Oh and by the way Billa there are dwarves canoodling behind your shrubbery.”

“Which ones?”Billa asks, though since Nori is still inside and Bofur’s off hopefully teaching Drogo how to fix his damnable boat, there’s only one couple it could really be.

“The tall gnarly one with the axes and the short one with the rather nice cardigan. I must get that pattern in fact, I think it would look quite well on Otho…” Lobelia says.

“That’s Dwalin and Ori, and I’ll have Dori mail the pattern to you if you promise to leave them alone.” Billa tells her. Seeing Lobelia bully her cousin into a cardigan is something she regrets she won’t be around for, but she suspects she can persuade Prim to write her about it.

So getting misty eyed really isn’t necessary, and she hunts frantically for a distraction of some kind. Thankfully, Lobelia and Prim cannot be within two square feet of one another without some kind of squabble breaking out, and soon enough they are bickering merrily over who ought to be baking which cake at the fair.

Another thing she will inevitably be missing. But then again the usual gossips will have to miss out on _their_ annual chatter about contrary Billa Baggins and her lack of a husband, which went on even before she left with the company. Billa _feels_ contrary all of a sudden, and wonders if she will ever be able to settle where is best for her, or if she will be held between homes feeling love and longing and guilt over one or the other for the rest of her days.

And whether it even matters, when she loves her family, both her families, so very very much, and she has been blessed enough to get most of them back after all she’s done.

“Billa…Billa!” Lobelia, with the aid of one of her sharp tones and sharper fingers snapping in front of Billa’s face, manages to jerk her out of her thoughts. “What do you think, then? I mean I’m clearly better suited, not to mention my kitchen being bigger- not quite as big as yours of course but then you never could make use of a good thing when you-”

“I’m going to go and talk to Kili.” Billa announces, aware that that sounds more of a plea than a statement, and ends up having to troop round to the other side of the garden to find Thorin’s nephew doing battle with the hanging baskets. She leans against the side of her house, enjoying the shade and the quiet between various muttered oaths in Khuzdul.

“Dragon lady at you again?” Kili asks after a few minutes, and it’s all very well for him, he’s not related to Lobelia and doesn’t have to be in any way polite. Comparing her to Smaug, though…well, Billa’s not sure that’s entirely fair- she’s sure the great Wyrm, for all his faults, was never quite so annoyingly persistent as her cousin’s wife.

“Mmm.” she replies in the best noncommittal way she can think of.

“Can I shoot her?” Kili asks in a wheedling tone of voice. “Can I? _Please_?”

“No you may not.” Billa shoots him an eyeroll. “Where’s your uncle?”

“Dunno. Hiding from your relatives maybe. He said he was going to find you- I told him you were outside- ooh, maybe Freya knows.” Kili leaps off through the window and returns a few seconds later with Freya, hastily liberated from the kitchen and the supervision of a few of Thorin’s guardsmen who have been press-ganged into helping pack up Bag-end.

“Where’s your Adad gone then, my lovely?” Billa asks once her daughter is in her arms again.

“Dunno.” Freya shrugs, tossing her braided hair a little. “What we doin’, Mama?” she asks when Billa sets her on the ground and leads her back to the house by the hand.

Billa nips at her lower lip. “We’re just packing, sweetie.” She has explained this to her daughter as simply as she can- that they are going to live in the mountain now, though the Shire is home and they will visit often. She thinks Freya understands- she is nodding solemnly and there hasn’t been any protest over it, but still, she cannot help the guilt she feels.

Freya will not have a childhood in the Shire as Billa did- will not have afternoons at Tuckborough and go wading in the pond, will not kiss her first boy or girl under the party tree or receive one of Dora’s pretty handmade white lace frocks when she turns thirty-three.

Will not grow up rough and tumble with her Took and Brandybuck cousins, or at least not as much as Billa would like. But would she have done so anyway, when she is still branded bastard, half dwarf, does not age as quick as her peers even, changeling daughter of that thankless Baggins girl who ran off with a bunch of dwarves one peaceful night five years ago?

No. This is Billa’s chance to do right by Freya, since the Shire she dreams of for her little one could never really be. Instead, the dark and cool of the Lonely Mountain will be her lot. She will be a Princess in all but title, beloved of her father and his kin. There will be Fili and Kili’s future children for her to call cousin, she will play among Bombur’s girls who she is already bosom friends with.

Perhaps it is for the best, then, and Freya will surely understand with time. She loves Thorin, worships Fili and Kili and in Dis she has an Aunt, a proper one who can teach her how to be a dwarrowdam. It stiffens Billa a little, to know that there are, that there _will be_ parts of Freya’s life she will not understand, but that is for her to bear, not her darling daughter.

Lady Dis has spoken to her of what this choice will mean- she is truly Thorin’s sister, stubborn and hard in manner but with a readier wit, quicker to laugh or joke than her kingly brother. Billa knows, has been told and knows without needing to be that Erebor will not welcome her with wholly open arms.

There will always be dwarrows who look at her with hooded eyes, wondering why her thieving fingers have yet to be shortened by inches, her hair not hacked off to the roots since she has no beard to cut for her shame. There are names they call her that she is sadly used to, though in the Shire the euphemisms tend to be far more genteel.

Remaining also is the shadow of the men who took her daughter, though Dwalin insists they have been dealt with, that she need never think of them again except to know that they suffer for their crimes. A small part of her protests at that, wants to look them in the eye and ask what they were even _thinking_ , to take her child. If they could begin to imagine the pain, one that is still so great she almost feels guilty for it. 

A still smaller part wants to drive Sting through their hearts. But it is tiny, for thief as she is there is not much she can attribute to their burglarising, other than that it will remain a raw wound in her breast even though Freya is safe now, small sticky hand clasped firmly in hers as they troop through Bag-end in search of a certain King.

It proves a fruitless search, since no-one has seen Thorin since breakfast when he fled Billa’s relations’ persistent knocks on the door- she has been to Michel Delving and spoken with the proper authorities, been from door to door in Hobbiton and thanked those who will answer her for their help in getting back Freya, but now that she has committed the additional sin of bringing back the dwarves, their ability to tolerate her _shenanagins_ has worn thin.

It is probably best that she is leaving, though half of Hobbiton seems to be of the opinion that she’ll be back with her tail between her legs within a six-month.

They run across Lobelia again down one of the corridors near the parlour, poking about with the silver plate hanging upon the wall. Billa startles upon seeing her, for her ability to be in two places at once is uncanny. “Do you have mice?” she asks, once she catches sight of Billa.

“What…no, of course not.” Billa frowns.

“Well you might want to check the cupboard, then- some very funny noises are coming from it.” Lobelia tosses her head matter of factly towards the china cupboard across the corridor, and Billa sucks in a breath in order to keep her patience.

“You could’ve done so yourself.” she points out, trying to work the cupboard door open- it is the one with the tricky handle that gets stuck all the time, she’d been meaning to get it fixed…well, Lobelia’s right about the noises at any rate, what on earth can they be?

“Indeed.” Lobelia shoots her a glare in response just as Billa manages to jerk the handle correctly and Thorin Oakenshield falls out of the cupboard among an avalanche of teacups.

“Ah.” The King Under the Mountain says, sprawled with little of his usual dignity on the floor. “I lost my way.” he says rather unnecessarily.

“And…shut yourself in the china cupboard.” Billa clarifies. Freya meanwhile, takes advantage of her father’s prone state and her mother’s distraction to distangle herself from Billa and putter off back the way they came, waving merrily at her parents and any dwarves she comes across along her path.

“You shouldn’t let her run about so.” Thorin says as he stands, brushing off his shirt as Lobelia stifles an unladylike giggle with the back of her hand.

“Don’t be silly.” Billa shakes her head and reaches over to pick out a silver spoon that has somehow got tangled in Thorin’s hair. Honestly she wouldn’t have noticed it if not for the odd angle. “Bag-end is perfectly safe, and she knows her way around. She has lived here all her…oh, nevermind.” she tries to dismiss her own words when Thorin’s expression darkens, no doubt remembering that the first months of Freya’s life were spent in Imladris rather than the Shire.

“Mahal, Billa, you live in a rabbit warren. No wonder your people breed so prolifically.” Thorin says gruffly, and Billa is torn between belting him one across the skull for that and laughing her head off at how disgruntled he looks. Either would be extremely displeasing to Thorin’s kingly sensibilities, as is obvious from the red shade of his ears that can be seen as he stomps off after their daughter. Billa bends down and begins to gather the debris of his entrapment in the cupboard, knowing that there is a vague smile on her face.

“It’s a crying shame if you ask me.” Lobelia sniffs as she rescues the tea set. “Such a beautiful set in such…uncaring hands.”

Affecting an unimpressed look, Billa stacks the plates and shoves them back onto the shelf. “Fine, you can have the tea-set if you stop talking and go home. I’m not leaving till this evening anyway.”

Lobelia’s delight is unfeigned, but there is still that shred of calculation as she speaks. “And the Westfarthing crockery? I mean it _is_ only fair, considering-”

“Do not push your luck, Lobelia, I’m not completely- Kili put that plate down I told you not to throw them!”

It takes another few hours for the ruckus to calm down, but soon Billa finds herself turning in slow circles in the empty hallway of her once crowded smial, the dust striping across the floor indented with dwarven boot prints under the low hanging sunset.

It has not been this quiet, she realises, since before her grand adventure, or in particular, that sunny morning as she crept around searching for leftover dwarves before cursing her Tookish side and grabbing her coat and that _ridiculous_ contract. Leave it to Thorin Oakenshield, then, to cross the threshold in the exact same manner as he did on the night of the unexpected party, heavy cloak and all.

“Dear one?” He says, and his voice is gentle now as it was not back then, and oh how lucky she is, to know him like that, to see the gentle lines that intersect his harsh brow and the quirk at the side of his thin lips that can be sharp or soft depending on who you are.

“Just a minute.” she says, only faltering a little. Everything is packed up and ready to be off, piled upon the wagons. All her relations who still speak to her have said goodbye, all her neighbours will be peering from between their curtains. 

“It will be dark soon.” Thorin tells her. She knows, though.

“It gets dark every night.” she says. They will probably have to stop when they get to Bree, in any case. It is not as though this is the last she will see of her green and gentle country, of the peace and calm of the west.

“For all your platitudes, Miss Baggins, that may be the worst one you’ve ever served me.” Thorin looks genuinely amused, but his broad hand settles for a moment on her waist- under pretence of fiddling with the strings where her frock is tied above a shirt of mithril mail, but he squeezes her gently, on the part of her hip where he knows a tender spot is hidden, and she turns soft for him as she always has done.

And always will. She rubs her hands together a little, then calls out: “Freya, sweetheart. Come along.” A clomping of dwarven boots is heard from down one of the smial’s many corridors and a moment later their daughter appears, grinning and gap toothed, black braids half undone.

“We goin’ now, mama?” she asks, looking between her parents. It seems to be something she never tires of, examining the both of them with her astute blue eyes. As though she is trying to eat up their images, believes that one or both will vanish. 

“Yes, dear. There and back again, off we go.” She has lost track of which is which, Billa suddenly realises, thinking of the red bound book packed onto the wagon out in the lane- and, as Thorin hefts Freya upwards and they walk off down the path, she no longer minds nearly so much, even when the round green door swings shut behind them. 

**Author's Note:**

> And the series has come to an end. *sniffles* Honestly and at the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, massive thankyous to everyone who read, commented, made fanart and anything else I'm sure and forgetting. You people are wonderful. 
> 
> Since my headcanons for this verse could fill a mid-size book and I've left a lot of it open ended, shoot me an ask on tumblr (disgracedbakewell) or just in the comments, and I'll be happy to answer as best as I can. 
> 
> Thankyou again, and remember that everything I do from this point onwards, the kink meme makes me. :)


End file.
